My friend's words to start the poem:
"pray don't beg, go right ahead,"
I ran them over in my head, I precise:
we're never even if the cell is compromised.
It's all bones I lay, in the mess
of myself I made, so to guess
"what's wrong, my dear?" someone asked
I couldn't lie once but alas
I said: "my bike's crying tears of blood
and you're here reading into it loads."
"Don't lie to me, I've eyes to see" they said,
"for how long've you been hiding this?
the bike is bleeding!"
I swallow then I nod my head
"you know, indeed I think it's leaking...
though its fuel was never red."
Inside I wish, hysterically
your mind to read my own or sense—
but as I sadly smile I say:
"haven't you seen its wheels yet?"